An Eighth Shot of Espresso: Coffee and Creativity on Mum's Third Shift

They say  the place is haunted  by the ghosts  of ages past  who do not know  they are dead  or who want to know  just why  no one  can see them cry or no one  can remember  their names if you listen  very closely  you might hear  their whispers  though they  cannot be understood.

An egg for breakfast  with shell so fragile  yet that is a blank canvas  for all hues of color a pinhole in the top the yolk for a tasty omelette from wax relief  stark white lines scratched in the surface for those Easter hunts where the bunny hides surprises for the children. to the priceless pieces  favored by emperors tiny jewels attached with the greatest of care a masterpiece of delicacy unmatched by modern means.

dewdrop in the morning  trembles at the edge  of a budding flower  not knowing  if it will fall over or linger for just  a while longer a razor's edge of possibility one or the other will gravity win or will it cling long enough for  the sun's drying touch

Bathe in a bright moonbeam feel the forest all around  the power of pristine perfection  the peace of a profound soul.  Look up into the light show the hidden halves within the truth tells the tale all the lies soon lie bare. See the stark reminder  of fate that fuels the universe  the goddess grants a lovely boon  that sends shadows through the night

After the rain on stone  droplets linger  waiting for their turn  to go back to the sky The clouds part the storm moves on the sun returns in all its glory Too short an existence but long enough from water to vapor each drop rises again.

Enhanced vision  from a tertiary eye unseen by mortals  but granted by heaven a knowledge beyond knowing a fate beyond feeling  they called her lucky  her words prophetic  but her sight is cursed  to see what could have been  what should have been  instead of what it is now